I HAD just finished reading the last chapter of that old, dirty, torn copy of Jane Eyre which belongs to the University Library, and which has been read evidently by thousands of dirty-fingered students, some of whom have greatly enhanced the intrinsic value of the book by wise criticisms and marginal sarcasm. The sombre cast of the tale made me gloomy. I thought of my degree and the chance I had of obtaining it. I hastily reviewed in my mind the three years I had already gone over, and thought how many mistakes I had made. Why had I not chosen different electives in many cases? "To be sure," said I to my chum, "the elective system is a fine thing, but one does not always know which is the best (i. e. the easiest) course to pursue." I have it now, though, a happy thought has just struck me; indeed, I wonder that the thought never came to any one else. Our great system of education is not complete, as has heretofore been supposed. One thing is wanting to perfect the plan, and consummate our boasted liberality. In short, all we need is a professor of phrenology. Nay, do not be startled; this is truly an original idea, and, moreover, I will show you the utility of my proposition. I affirm that no man ought to be allowed to choose his own electives. The professor of phrenology should do it for him. Only picture to yourself a student having his head manipulated by my ideal professor, who thus comments on the capacities of his subject: "Memory, pretty fair; reverence, none; mechanical ability (gouging, boring holes, etc.), good; self-esteem, very low; sensibilities, none. Young man, I 'll go no further; you are especially adapted to the dental school, and I earnestly advise you to enter at once."

Imagine the professor examining another man; and thus disposing of him: "Memory, poor; mathematics, none; language, wanting; perspicacity, none; common-sense, the merest trifle. Why, upon my word, you are admirably prepared for the law school or the scientific school!"

Suppose a third man to be thus spoken of: "Prolixity, large; self-esteem, big; secretiveness, plentiful; amativeness, immense; paper-collars, overwhelming. You, sir, evidently are designed by Providence for the theological school."

"Now, my friend," said I, "you must acknowledge that this is a brilliant conception of mine."

"I do, indeed," cried he, "and I will run instantly to address the Faculty on the subject before their meeting is dismissed."

In the mean time I thought I would sit down and write a sheet or two to put forth my happy idea to the college world.

L. H.